


Paulette, in Paris

by Celandine



Category: King's Speech (2010)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Prostitution, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celandine/pseuds/Celandine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie visits his first brothel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paulette, in Paris

Bertie inhaled the smoke with a gasp of relief, picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue, and glanced around the room.

It was crowded with overstuffed chairs and sofas upholstered in hot pinks and reds, aping opulence but achieving only tawdriness, in his opinion. He supposed that if he had had any clear idea what a Parisian brothel might look like, this establishment would live up to his expectations. Half a dozen doors led out, some directly to the whores' rooms, others to hallways which presumably had further rooms still. Several women, posed to best display their charms, waited for the next customer to appear. Bertie had had to wave one off from sitting on his knee.

He had never visited any brothel before, a situation that had simultaneously amused and appalled his elder brother.

"Not even when you were at the Royal Naval College?" David had asked. "I can't imagine that Fortney's had gone out of business in Dartmouth."

Bertie had shaken his head. "But I never went there."

He didn't try to explain today that that although he had participated in some fumbling experimentation with the other naval cadets, with a class standing of sixty third out of sixty eight, he hadn't dared break the rules to the extent of going off the college grounds to visit prostitutes. Even a prince might be dismissed for such behavior; being caned for having helped let off fireworks in the lavatories had been bad enough.

"Well then." David had smiled, a little condescendingly. "I'd better arrange for something. Father's already pushing me to find a wife, and it will be your turn next. Can't have you go to your marriage bed not knowing what to do in it, eh?"

So now Bertie was here, staring at the door through which David had disappeared with the woman he'd chosen, Paulette. She was supposed to be one of the most skilled in the establishment, or so they had been told, ideal for either a man with sophisticated tastes, or one of little experience.

Bertie ran a finger inside his collar. It was too warm in the over-decorated room. He turned his head, trying to distinguish the muffled sounds from beyond the door, but he could not. Waiting, he found himself nearly dozing off. It had not been a trip with much pleasure in it, not in the aftermath of war. Perhaps David was right, and this evening would make the rest of it easier to bear.

At last the door opened again and David emerged, wearing only his shirt and trousers, his coat over his arm.

"Your turn, Bertie," he said.

Behind him Bertie could see an indistinct figure, beckoning. He rose to his feet and with unsteady steps walked past David and into the room, closing the door behind him.

"What do you like, monsieur?" Paulette inquired, drawing him further in, close to the large bed.

Bertie felt a wash of relief, not at the question itself but at the fact that she spoke some English. He was nervous enough as it was, and trying to recall his schoolboy French would have been excruciating. He shrugged, spreading his hands wide. "I d-don't know."

"Your friend, he has paid for you to have almost anything you like," she assured him. "The gamahuche, anything."

"Gamahuche?" The word was unfamiliar.

Paulette seemed to take his question as a request, for she sank gracefully to her knees in front of Bertie and began unfastening his trousers. His half-hard prick spring to full attention at her touch, and then to his great shock Paulette put her mouth over it and sucked.

He choked back the expletive that rose to his lips; she might take it as a signal to stop. He did take a couple of steps backward, Paulette walking on her knees with him, so that he might sit down on the edge of the bed. He feared his knees might collapse otherwise.

The sensation was exquisite, the more so for having been unimagined, but quite soon Bertie touched Paulette to urge her to stop.

"You do not like?"

"I like it very m-much," he said honestly, "but I w-would rather..." Bertie hesitated, not comfortable saying the word "fuck" even to a prostitute, but unable to think of an appropriate substitute. He didn't know the French for it, even; it was not a word any of his tutors had deemed necessary for an adolescent prince to learn.

"Ah." Paulette nodded with understanding. She pulled her skirt up and settled herself on the bed. "I washed, after your friend," she assured him. Bertie hadn't even thought about that, but he was glad to hear that she was clean.

Her mound was well-covered with crinkled black hair, forming a neat V-shape. He touched it with hesitation, feeling the warmth and the moisture that seeped out from between her legs. Bertie realized he was shaking. Paulette stroked his hair.

"When you are ready," she encouraged him.

Bertie put the tip of his prick against her. She reached down to guide him into the damp well between her thighs. The heat and wetness were as glorious as her mouth had been, and it felt more natural to be doing this.

Tentatively at first, then with greater confidence, Bertie moved, his prick sliding in and out, making juicy sounds. Paulette had raised her legs so that her ankles rested on his backside, implicitly encouraging him to thrust deeper if he liked. She began to make breathy sounds, of pleasure he supposed, though he was aware that they might be faked to flatter his ego. That was her profession, after all, to make men feel good.

The heat in him rose and crested and spent itself in her. Bertie collapsed forward, taking in a gulp of air. After several moments he had recovered enough to put his hand up to open Paulette's blouse, exposing her breasts. He stroked and kissed them, marveling at their heaviness and resilience.

He would happily have stayed longer, caressing Paulette and perhaps even having another go, but he remembered that David would be waiting, not too patiently, for Bertie to finish. They were here in France for diplomatic reasons, not to fornicate with French prostitutes, after all.

He didn't know what he should do when it came to leaving. David had already paid. At last Bertie settled on saying merely, "Thank you," as he finished rebuttoning his trousers and straightened his jacket.

Paulette flashed him a charming smile, and suddenly reached up to put her hand on his head, pulling it down to whisper in his ear.

"Young Englishman, I shall tell you a secret?"

Bertie stiffened, but before he could react further, she continued.

"You are very good in bed, better than your friend. Your wife will be a lucky woman."

Scarlet-faced, Bertie fled. Paulette must be flattering him.

In the outer room, David was smoking a cigarette. "Enjoy it, Bertie?"

"Yes," Bertie said. "Thank you, D-David."

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Bertie's comment to Lionel: "David was always very helpful in arranging introductions. We shared the expert ministrations of 'Paulette' in Paris. Not at the same time of course."


End file.
